Taxis

I think I often vaguely allude to the taxis, but have never fully explained how they work. Taxis are a pretty awesome phenomenon, and I am given to understand that they work on a similar pattern (though hardly identical) throughout much of Africa.

The taxis are the equivalent of public transportation and are the standard way for people to get from the village to town. The system uses vans that are supposed to seat fifteen, though in practice can seat many more—though South Africa tends to be stricter than many other countries about enforcing the fifteen people rule. Since people often take enormous suitcases, their groceries for the next month, boxes of bread or snacks to sell in the village tuck shops, or other sundry items, even with only fifteen official passengers (not including the children sitting in laps or strapped to their mothers’ backs), the taxis can sometimes be a little to crowded for comfort, especially on a hot day.

Guidebooks call the taxis “minibus taxis” to distinguish them from the private taxis you can get in large towns or the cities (not in Giyani, however). The private taxis I have taken have been frankly horrible: expensive, slow, and prone to getting lost. The public taxi drivers, on the other hand, know exactly where everything is, can juggle change while swerving to avoid both potholes and other cars, and operate their route with supreme efficiency. They drive along one route like a bus, picking up passengers who hail them and letting off passengers when they yell out. At a particular point in the journey, everyone will hand forward their fare, one row at a time, and some combination of the driver and other passengers will make change. Unlike a bus, however, the taxis will wait at the ranks—both in town and in the villages—until they have a full load to go, so they keep to no regular schedule. My commute takes anywhere from forty minutes to two hours, doorstep to doorstep.

The taxis are used pretty much exclusively by black South Africans; other than Peace Corps volunteers, I have only seen one white person on a taxi in my six months in the country. White South Africans express shock when you tell them that you take the taxis, since they tend to believe them to be unsafe. Indeed, my presence on the taxi—as in most places I go in Giyani—tends to cause comment. However, the taxis (despite the occasional unpleasant incident) are incredibly safe, and one of the things I love most about South Africa.

On the taxi, you are part of a community. There is an enormous amount of trust and assumption that the rules will be followed when everyone passes their fare up front to the driver, and if you get shorted on change or the driver misses your stop, the other passengers on the taxi will stand up for you and make sure that you’re taken care of. If somebody harasses me, the kokwanas on the taxi scare them off.

On the taxi from town to work, I rarely see people I know and often have the frustrations and triumphs of first interactions, and I expect that I will continue to feel like a newcomer on these taxis for months to come. On the taxi from my village to town, on the other hand, I am an old hand; all the drivers know me, passengers greet me by name, and the queue marshal at the rank never fails to usher me directly on to the correct taxi when he thinks I am heading towards to with too much hesitation. I don’t even need to call out when I want to get off, since the drivers already know where to slow down, and if they forget, the other passengers remind them.